An Actor's Penance
by olympianchef213
Summary: Tony muses over a hot drink as Fornell struggles with a guilty conscience and one too many Kraft dinners. Meanwhile, Gibbs tries to keep his head out of the gutter and on his senior field agent. It's an actor's job, after all.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Why am I incapable of writing a simple father/son fic? Ah well, there's always next time.. Anyway, until then here's a tiny look inside Tony's mind after Short Fuse. Probably a two or three shot, but not just about Tony. Warnings/Disclaimers: Couple minor swear words, spoilers for 8.3 Short Fuse, and I don't own NCIS or any brands mentioned within. Enjoy and review, dear readers!**

Tony unlocks his door and steps into his apartment, eyes immediately wandering to the smudge of makeup on the sleeve of his only suit that hasn't been dry cleaned to immaculate purity. He's not at all bitter at today's events, not at all surprised, because he knows how this world works.

He knows how ten-year-olds lie to their teachers (anyone that glanced, really), awardless and unthanked, about scars and bruises and trees that were slick with sap. He told his team, once, that he loved climbing trees as a child. His teachers would say he was mostly good at falling out.

He knows the pain an eight-year-old can feel, broken and bloody but tormented by fire on the inside. The loneliness that comes from having your only friend – who happens to be your mother – snatched away to be replaced by three fingers of McCallen eighteen.

(And karma is the one bitch he's never managed to sleep with, so pardon him if his thoughts are a little moody tonight.)

It's not like he had the appreciation he's never managed to get in nine years held under his nose, the scent wafting up and just barely tickling the edges of his nostrils, held so close to him he could practically feel it sliding down his esophagus, only to be snatched away and handed to an already satiated colleague.

He's always known, though, that his best is never good enough. No matter that he exhausts himself looking for a lead, if Gibbs so much as lifts up the case file, he gets the credit.

Tony could have had that in Rota. He could have had that as agent afloat. Hell, he could have had that right here in Washington.

The fact that he isn't the one taking the credit and passing off the blame (he thought, once, that that wasn't how teams worked) has more to do with himself than with Gibbs, or Ziva, or even Abby.

They're no longer enough to make him stay, after all. He'd die for them, he'd kill for them, but those days that he _lived _for them can no longer be described with present tense.

Fond memories of happier times occasionally come and caress his brain, teasing him to the point of insanity. Memories of the perfect two man team, of the third wheel that was added and taken away too hastily. He thinks it's sad that they all end in him with his partner's blood on his face.

They're not what makes him stay (nothing is, really) but they are what make him not leave.

Because Tony's sense of duty is a mile wide at it's narrowest point, and he doesn't think Vance has ever crossed it. He won't ever have the option of a sojourn to Mexico, or even a two day vacation, whether he stays at NCIS for nine years or ninety. Gibbs can "semper fi" them all he wants but in the end, it's Tony who'll stay with them, Tony who'll hold the team together when they're out of superglue.

When Gibbs abandons them he gets compassion and understanding. When Tony is there for them he gets cut down until there's nothing left to cut. _"C'est la vie," _as his not quite father-in-law once said.

Didn't he show leadership? The closure rate didn't dip and no one died. If that's not success, at least it isn't failure. And he doesn't _need _a photoshoot or a medal to tell him he did a good job.

That's not to say it doesn't hurt. His methods may be unorthodox, but to say he doesn't show integrity is to suffocate him with a stuffed unicorn. Maybe even worse.

He likes his boss, though. No matter how demanding and bitchy Gibbs is, he's always been a mentor and friend to his senior field agent.

And Tony, for the record, isn't saying Gibbs doesn't deserve an award, because he obviously does, if only for putting up with his own antics where two drunk parents and three PD's didn't.

It's just that Gibbs isn't the only one who hand shaped the junior agents, but he sure is the only one who gets the credit. And that would be okay, he doesn't need credit (if he ever did, he sure doesn't now) if it didn't interfere with their somewhat dysfunctional but usually fun office life.

In the end, all Tony wants is to do his damned job. If McGee has balks at the last second, refuses to back down from an armed terrorist because it was _DiNozzo _who told him and not his _precious Gibbs, _then yeah, they've got a problem.

And Tony can say it _probably _won't become an issue, that they'll deal with _if_ it does, but that's no way to live. (It is, however, a good way to die.) He's almost completely certain that McGee doesn't respect him, mostly because of the expression that usually sits on the smug oval Tim calls a face.

Like he's the cat that got the whole damn aviary and creamery.

Tony wonders, briefly, if it's his fault. If sweet, innocent little Timmy turned into a vicious monster because he broke him. But then he realizes (remembers, really) that cops don't like pretty boys who grew up with money. Neither that nor this was ever his fault.

And he knows he never did to McGee what they did to him, taunting him and beating him and interpreting his pleas of _"No, I'm never going to be rich" _as _"No, you're never going to be as rich as me."_

(If nothing else, he should get an award for breaking the vicious cycle of abuse. Twice bitten, always shy.)

Tonight, though, he isn't drinking hot cocoa with gummy worms (alcohol's never really been his thing – and is that surprising?) because he needs comfort from the big, bad world. He got over that his first night at military school.

Tonight he's drinking to directors who call him dishonest (and late directors who ask him to be dishonest), to a team who barely tolerates him and a boss who's mood had seen better days, probably before it was blown up and then soaked in salty beach water. 

Mostly, though, he's just drinking because it's cold.

**A/N: Thanks for reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Next chapter we get dialogue (I know, don't die from the shock of it)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Same disclaimers apply! A gigantic shout out to those who reviewed (seriously, I swear I'm addicted) and those who favorited/alerted it or just read and enjoyed! Hope you like this one!**

Tobias Fornell slips unnoticed through the unlocked front door of a man he calls his best friend only through process of elimination. He's a man with a mission, sure, but mostly he's a man with a guilty conscience.

It's a debt to a man he can't stand on the best of days, but a debt all the same.

Gibbs joins him, a bottle of beer in each hand because good marines (good investigators, good parents) always anticipate. Or maybe seeing such a fierce, determined woman stirred up some unwelcome emotions.

Fornell's not a profiler. He takes the beer.

"Whatcha doing here, Tobias?" Gibbs' words are only slightly slurred.

"Guy can't come hang out with his buddies anymore?"

"You don't have buddies, Fornell. You have colleagues, people who hate you only a little bit less than your colleagues, and people who don't work with you but hate you all the same."

Fornell grins. "And which category do you fit into, dear sweet Jethro?" The question is rhetorical, but still begs for an answer.

Gibbs snatches a previously disregarded half empty coffee cup and swiftly drains it. The slur is all but gone from his voice as he barks out a "None of the above. I get my own category. Now _what the hell _are you doing in my house at_ FOUR IN THE MORNING, _Agent Fornell_?"_

Damn. And he would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for that meddling clock.

He clears his throat, and tries to give a voice to his concerns. "I lied to you, Jethro."

That clearly wasn't the right answer. "And you woke me up just to tell me?"

"You weren't sleeping. You were sanding the hours away, ran out of Jack, and came up here to get a few beers. Taking a break from what you were doing doesn't count as sleeping, Gibbs. And while I do often rile you up for kicks and giggles, my poor guilty conscience just couldn't wait two more hours."

A silver eyebrow leaps. "Elucidate."

"This isn't the sixth grade. You don't get extra credit for using big words."

Gibbs pauses, momentarily sidetracked. "Your sixth grade teacher gave you extra credit for using big words? God, Tobias, no wonder the FBI can't get anything done."

Fornell, who loves a good argument as much as the next man but not at four a.m., tries to get back to the issue at hand but misses the taxi. He sinks into the unoffered chair and mentally regroups, wondering why every conversation with Gibbs turns into a battle.

He's got more in common with this man than just about any other on the planet. Why is this conversation so hard? They share a love of building things, a dislike of Punjabi food, and an ex wife. But most importantly, they both have a sense of duty, a sense of filial loyalty that borders on obsession. Or so he thought.

And therein lies the root of the problem. Gibbs left, once, but he came back. That's okay. (Fornell usually chalks it up to mid-life crisis.) It may have been unforgivable, but it was still somehow completely forgivable. But then he left again. And all of a sudden, things weren't okay anymore.

That was years ago, and if he can't move on then he'll just have to move out. But what's to stop Gibbs from leaving again?

When his boss isn't here, DiNozzo's a pretty reasonable guy. Fornell owes him for a couple drinks, a cab ride home, and a recipe for pasta alla Puttanesca.

"That recipe, the one for the pasta, it wasn't from my mother. We ate Kraft dinners and green bean casseroles most nights growing up." He blurts the words out quickly, worried that they'll jump back in.

Gibbs blinks at the non-sequitur. "I don't get it, Tobias."

"It's DiNozzo's. Well, his housekeeper's mother's recipe. So really it wasn't a lie, because it was _someone's _mother's recipe, even if it wasn't mine..." He trails off, looking for understanding.

Gibbs snorts. "You think I didn't know that, Fornell? You know how many times DiNozzo's made that same pasta for me?"

If Fornell had been expecting something, this sure isn't it.

"I've gotta say, though, I didn't realize you were so pally with my senior field agent. Last time I checked – and that was yesterday, Tobias – you two hated each other like there was no tomorrow."

It's an honest question (that isn't really a question at all) and it deserves at the least a semi-honest response.

"When he doesn't have a boss to hide from, he's not actually such a..." (Tobias has always had trouble describing DiNozzo) "a bologna sandwich."

Clearly Gibbs has not heard that analogy before. His eyebrows practically jump off his forehead and he gives a glare he and DiNozzo labeled the 'explain before I draw and quarter you somehow without needing horses and feed your entrails to the barista' glare (there was a _lot _of cocktails involved – apparently they share a closet love for frou frou drinks).

"Well, first you've got the bread, which is obviously the mask he wears. But it's not _just _bread, it's marbled rye and pumpernickel, because -"

Gibbs cuts in, wondering when, exactly, the whole world turned into Ducky. "I don't actually give a damn what type of bread DiNozzo is."

"Right. Well, then there's the mayonnaise – homemade, of course, the kid's Italian – to ensure it doesn't get soggy."

Gibbs is struck by a very bad, very dirty image that he doesn't think men of his age should be getting. He shakes his head and tries to remember that this is his _senior field agent _they're talking about, not a male brothel.

"And why wouldn't you want a soggy... sandwich?"

If Fornell notices the pause, he's smart enough not to comment.

"Aside from the fact that it would be totally unappealing, the mayonnaise protects the bologna from the bread and the outside world. The bologna is the secret star of the show, the understudy who does all the work, the anonymous but very generous benefactor of a fish and tackle museum."

Saying Gibbs is confused is comparable to calling eighteen wheelers bigger than Japanese beetles.

"Don't you get it, Jethro? The bologna is the real DiNozzo, the one who actually has emotions and needs people instead of pasting smiley faces over all his boo-boos. I thought I saw it – or him, or whatever – but then it went away. I just want the bologna back, Gibbs, and if admitting my somewhat dubious sins can get me the good stuff that doesn't have mold, then I'll sit in confessional for a month."

With this statement that didn't seem extraordinarily strong to anyone who didn't know Tobias Fornell (and was as good as a declaration of undying love for those who did), Fornell leaves his on again, off again friend to his thoughts.

And both bottles of unopened beer.

**A/N: Hmm.. somehow I always seem to end with drinks. Two more chapters, I think. But enough about me, let's talk about you... what do you think of me? (Brownie points if you can name the movie AND you review!)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: A shout out the size of Texas to those who reviewed! The movie was Beaches, if it was keeping you up at night. Same disclaimers apply, so read and review, humans!**

Gibbs slips back into his rhythmic pattern of sanding after Fornell leaves. It's a musical noise: _sand up, pull back down, woosh, waah, woosh, waah. _It's the noise that comforted him when his mother died, after Shannon and Kelly died, through three divorces and the alimony that came with them.

He's always been more of a hands-on kind of guy. He'll leave the talking up to others better suited for the position (but he's not naming any names).

As the boss, the leader, the alleged 'father' of the best team in NCIS, he knows he should be giving pep talks and inspirational speeches. Truth is, he can hardly order a pizza (or a cause of death) without running out of words.

Big words aren't his strong point. He doesn't hide what he's going to say with flowery metaphors that sound pretty but don't actually mean anything.

_ You'll do. _ The two words he quite possibly regrets the most. He knew DiNozzo would do, as it were, but he also knows the man shouldn't have had to.

For a marine, he certainly has been leaving quite a few people behind.

And he can say all he wants that part of family life is growing up and moving on, but that wouldn't be giving his team justice. Not when Ziva gave up her making amends with her biological family to stay with people she barely knew, not when McGee left his team of baby McGeeks (when did he turn into Tony?) for people he loves to hate.

Not when DiNozzo's turned down God knows how many promotions for something many would describe as self abuse.

He knows about Rota, knows about the other promotions that weren't quite as public (and that's saying something, considering Rota was supposed to be hushed up) to other cities and tropical places the DiNozzo he knows – thought he knew – would kill for.

Mainly he knows what made Jenny Sheppard tick, and what ticked her off.

The solid wood beneath his hand cannot erase the shame he feels when he remembers the words he said. _When he's ready, the whole world will know. _ Hell, he knew what the team was doing to Tony.

But instead of making it better (no one was ever fooled that he lost the power to terrorize junior agents) he just piled on more abuse.

The only thing worse than kicking a dog when it's down is not learning from your mistakes and kicking it again.

If anyone has the right to quit (he told himself, once, that retiring wasn't quite the same thing) it's his senior field agent.

He remembers what Shannon asked him during their first official fight (completely worth it when the making up was factored in). _Does being a bastard come naturally to you?_

If the answer was no, before, it certainly is a resounding yes now. He doesn't know why he delights in kicking the man he thinks of as son – or at least a very good friend and extremely capable drinking buddy – until one of them is driven to leave.

And despite the three police departments that have a place on DiNozzo's resumé, Gibbs knows that if either of them resign, it'll be him.

When DiNozzo sinks his teeth into something, he won't take them out until a hand grenade is somehow put into his mouth and blows the enamel to bits. And even then, he'd probably find a way to make prosthetic teeth from the shrapnel. It's an admirable quality that even some of the best men lack, but it's also a trait of the most evil.

After all, some may say the devil's all bad, but most agree he exemplifies perseverance.

Fornell surprised him, but then, he lost the right to know all of Tony's friends (last time he checked, that group had been labeled NCIS MCRT) when he started shooting tequila with his former boss.

He's still a bit scarred from the bologna sandwich analogy, especially after so many episodes of running into Tony (in all his DiNozzo glory, if you catch his drift) coming out of the showers.

But Fornell came to him looking for answers he doesn't have, just like his senior field agent stares at him for reassurance he can't give.

He ponders wearing a neon sign cautioning against looking to him for emotional gratification, but quickly realizes only two people ever do.

They're firemen, running towards a burning Gibbs when everyone else is running away.

And he's proud of Tony for not making a big deal about the photoshoot, but mostly he is upset and a little disappointed in his team. It's not, of course, that he thinks DiNozzo needed to be on the cover of some recruiting magazine, or that the team dynamic shouldn't include a little teasing.

But he can't help but wonder why anything good that happens to Tony is always immediately negated. _A silver cloud with a black lining. _ He thinks of Jeanne, Jenny, Kate, Paula, and Ziva, thinks of his father who only showed up to ask for money. He's mad at Leon for saying DiNozzo's not good enough, but madder at himself for implying it.

Mad that he didn't fight harder, all those times, to win some of the battles Tony was wrongfully drafted into fighting. He fights well, grateful that anyone thought he was good enough to give a gun to, but they are not his own crusades.

He wonders, briefly, when things got so out of hand. When his team became less like a family and more like a bunch of survivors thrown into a series of cubicles. When every case became just that, a case, not a game or a puzzle that was morbid but at least _interesting_.

Work has become work and Gibbs has lost all interest in the thrill of the hunt. He's there for his team but apparently he's a few knives the full drawer because he thinks (knows) that Tony is a picture of good character. Jenny, despite her own shortcomings, saw that, and so did Morrow. But Vance doesn't (or won't – Gibbs isn't sure which is worse) and that makes for a dangerous environment that leaves no one satisfied.

Meanwhile Tony is at once caught in the crossfire and leader of both sides. He wears the mask yet says things plainly, but in the end, he's just trying to do his job. To survive.

It's a bloody and arduous battle that is somehow necessary, even as DiNozzo is protesting loudly that they need not fight it for him. For a man who's been looking after himself since he was eight, but who deserved a happily ever after as much as anyone, Gibbs figures he can spare a little blood. Sometimes it's not about what is easy or what is right, but simply taking a stand.

It is not the conquering but the fighting well that makes history.

**A/N: Next (and final) chapter we finally get Gibbs/Tony interaction! Father/son, hopefully, if I can overcome this terrible angst addiction! Hope you enjoyed, and I'd love to hear your thoughts!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait, RL got in the way (as usual). Thank you so much for all the reviews and support, and I hope you enjoy (and review)!**

**Disclaimer: If I owned NCIS, I'd buy a unicorn. **

The six minute drive to Tony's house is one Gibbs can execute perfectly with two broken arms and a blindfold. He's not quite certain when he would need this skill, but seeks comfort in knowing the option is there.

Fearless leader though he may be, he is petrified at the thought of DiNozzo leaving – maybe quite not as immobilized as he would be with two shattered bones and a blindfold, but still up there.

Not just because he would lose the best agent he's ever had (or because he would miss the regular trips to Bethesda – he's ready to start relationships with at least four nurses) but because he knows his heart will shatter if the man who is just shy of being his son leaves. It is a terrible thing to lose a child, but it's a sin to lose two.

Logically, he knows that DiNozzo Senior is still alive and kicking, and understands the implications of this unfortunate fact perfectly. Because no matter how many times Senior claims to love his son, Gibbs has seen first-hand what grief does to a man. It transforms them into wild beasts that may care one moment and rage in a fury the next, beasts whose unpredictability makes them more dangerous than their violent tendencies.

He claims to love his son, but his love is conditional. If Gibbs gets a nickel every time Tony spouts out one of his "DiNozzos Don't" rules during the next year, he expects he'll be buying a Corvette in matter of weeks.

And Gibbs knows he's not perfect, knows that if he's trying to be Tony's father he's failing miserably. But Tony plays the good son role as if his job description is the fifth commandment. He'll honor anyone who could pass as a mother or father.

Said senior field agent opens the door to his apartment, looking disheveled yet wholly unsurprised to see his boss at seven in the morning.

"Hey, boss. We catch a case?" The innocuous question would have been reasonable to someone who doesn't know Tobias Fornell.

"Yeah, right, DiNozzo. Stop pretending you didn't get a wakeup call at five from a guilty FBI agent."

"What can I say? The man likes me more than you, and, let's face it, can you blame him?" Tony smirks, but Gibbs knows better than to believe all is right in DiNozzo land.

Tony begins to whine about how he could have had Cindy over (Gibbs has a strong feeling her name had been Miranda last night), and why can't Gibbs call before he comes, and really, it's so early even the worm catching early birds aren't up, and –

"I'm sorry." They're the only words Gibbs knows that have the power to shut Tony up, and no matter how hard they are to say, that is completely priceless. Gibbs refuses to think he has any other motives behind saying them.

Tony shuts up.

Mouth agape, he sinks into the nearest piece of furniture – his umbrella stand – and stares at his boss, completely disregarding the polka-dotted parasol (Cindy/Miranda's?) digging into his back. Gibbs, hit by an even stronger feeling of guilt, wonders at his ability to be such a bastard that his loquacious colleague would be so silent at hearing an apology from his lips.

But he can't fool himself. He knows his strengths and his weaknesses, and one that he calls the former but knows is the latter is his inability to apologize, especially to this man. A parent never wants their child to know their shortcomings, to know that mommy or daddy isn't actually the kind of superhero who flies over buildings and saves the world on a day to day basis.

Kelly had died thinking her fearless father was perfect, the one man in the world who could always save _her _world, who would never break her heart or bones. She was wrong.

And he knows it's not the same thing with Tony, knows deep down that DiNozzo's not his son but perhaps deserves an apology (several, really) even more than if he had been. Somehow, though, apologizing to the brash ex-cop would mean facing his own fallibility.

He doesn't _want_ to remember abandoning his team or lying to them or keeping secrets. True, they're just a team in the dregs of the federal alphabet soup, but Tony's invested enough time, enough nights away from Cindy or Miranda or whichever girlfriend he makes up each week, to earn the right to something more.

Some things, after all, are better left said.

"I mean it, Tony. I'm sorry, and that's a long time coming. I never apologized for leaving and I never apologized for coming back, and I don't know which is more worthy of acknowledgment. Jenny and Ducky both warned me to at least thank you, and I couldn't even manage that. Hell, even Fornell made a feeble but nonetheless heartfelt attempt to get me to talk to you, and I should have realized what an ass I had been."

Tony opens his mouth for a token protest, but Gibbs beats him to the punch.

"You were a good leader then, and you're a good leader now. What's more, you are a good _man_, Tony. It's not just your job description, it's who you are. I never said it because I didn't think I needed to, and that is one of the few regrets I will always carry."

Winded from the unusually long speech, Gibbs stalks off to the kitchen for a glass of water (or something stronger, though the beginnings of a hangover are already settling in) leaving Tony to gape after him.

But Tony's been left behind one too many times, so he runs after him and pours cranberry juice for both of them.

"No beer, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks wryly, hoping the effects of his late night session with "Jack" aren't obvious, but knowing they are (and when had he developed the liver of an eighty year old?)

"I think you've had enough already. Did you get any sleep at all last night?" It's a question not many would ask – after all, when Gibbs sleeps, the monsters wake up – but this man knows him too well to think he's invincible.

But Gibbs refuses to have talked that long in vain.

"Stop deflecting. I know your supposedly precious _feelings _weren't really hurt by that damn photoshoot gone wrong, but I also know you more than anyone deserve some credit for an exemplary job that no one ever thanks you for."

Tony blinks. "I knew it would be a thankless job when I signed up, Gibbs." Seeing his boss's (for once) patient face, he continues.

"It's just, I thought I could at least rely on support from my team. But McGee and Ziva have given me nothing but grief ever since, well…" He hesitates, but the unspoken words are written on every frown line he didn't have so many years ago in Baltimore.

"Since I went to Mexico. I know, Tony, and I should have stopped it – hell, I shouldn't have started it in the first place, but I needed that vacation. Maybe I could have come back a little sooner, or not insisted I was leaving for good, but -" He stops at Tony's agitated gesture.

"It's not that, not at all, Gibbs. I've certainly done too much leaving of my own to have the right to blame you for that. It's just," he bites his lip, and Gibbs knows what he's going to say the second before the words reach his lips, "You'll do? They thought – _we _thought – I was only just good enough." More hesitation. "Am I?"

The two words shatter Gibbs' heart; juxtaposed with the brash words of the bullpen, they are nothing less than a crime – one that Gibbs has been committing for the last ten years or so.

"Look, Tony. I can't get rid of all your self-doubt in a day – or a decade – but I sure as hell will try, because some things just happen to be worth it. _You_ are worth it. You are not "just good enough," you are the best thing that's happened to NCIS – and me – since electric percolators were installed in all the coffee makers.

Gibbs sighs, seeing the still doubt filled face of his protégé. He's already used up his word quota for the day, but the kid is worth it (and, like paid leave, he still has some leftover words from his exceptionally bad days.)

"I chose you in Israel, didn't I? Knowing Ziva had killed her brother to save me, knowing she thought of me as a surrogate father, I chose you. You - " here he pauses, trying to make the words sound more eloquent but not knowing how, " You are my son in every way that matters, Tony. You are the one who makes my life worth living. I go into work every morning with a smile – metaphorically, of course – because I look forward to seeing _you_, not McGee, not Ziva, certainly not Vance."

Tony's features rapidly shift from utterly astonished to completely delighted, but Gibbs isn't done.

"I don't know why I waited all these years to tell you, but - " DiNozzo, apparently, decides he actually is done.

"But you have been telling me, boss. All those head slaps and pizzas and the rare but all the more meaningful words of praise meant something. Actions speak louder than words, and yours were practically shrieking. Still, it's really nice to hear the words sometimes, and I know that's usually more my style than yours. So, thank you, even if those words are even more inadequate than usual." A small hesitation. "And if honesty is the hip new thing in town, I feel the same way. I love you too, boss."

There is no nauseatingly sugary expression on either face, no sobbing into each other's shoulder or even a hug, merely two men stating what deep down, they had already known.

But it's on rare occasions like these when a word is worth a thousand pictures, not the other way around, and sometimes a hug (or a slap to the back of the head) can't quite convey the message the way a simple "I love you, son" can.

**A/N: Couldn't resist the fluffy ending Thanks for reading, and I'd love to hear from you!**


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